Of Monsters and Men
by gugalanna1
Summary: A short fic about Amon hunting Kate.


I don't own WHR.

**Of Monsters and Men**

Chapter One: Last One to Go

_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you._

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

The darkness within her apartment was relieved only by the dim, orange glow from a lamp across the street. At nearly 4 in the morning, it was still raining and lightening every few minutes; but the storm was passing. Her window was open to the weather, Kate having disregarded the frigid cold of a November rain in favor of fresh air. It seemed to be working. She felt calmer, more in control. She could still feel her mind _buzzing_ slightly, felt the soft drumming of her Craft within.

The pieces of her last breakdown lay in crystalline shards around her feet, small fragments of red glass that captured and reflected the meager light from outside. They could have been tiny pools of blood, the way they glistened softly. Kate closed her eyes, concentrated on breathing. _In. Out. In. Out._ Sweat trickled down her face in rivulets, despite the chilly breeze.

It was getting more and more difficult, controlling her Craft. She could feel herself losing the battle. It was her temper. But she couldn't help it. Sometimes she just got so angry, at the smallest of things. Like the red flower vase that now lay in pieces on the floor. She'd bought that for herself, a couple of years ago, loving the color, the intricate, tiny flower details. They were barely visible when one looked at it askance, but a closer examination revealed the pattern, appearing to be almost defects in the glass, rather than an intentional design.

It began with the clock, really. Kate had arrived home earlier that day—well, yesterday now. Her head ached, her feet were sore, and her fingers trembled softly beneath the sleeves of her coat. She'd lost a suspect. Hmmpff. Not really. She'd killed a suspect—accidentally. Of course, the fact that he was a trigger happy Witch didn't really make a difference. Not in Zaizen's eyes. Not to Amon. The release of her Craft hadn't really been that magnificent a spectacle, thank God. Her…_aim_ was just a little off. More than a little. She'd meant to pull the walls down around the Witch, just to block his path, as Amon ordered. Instead, Kate brought them down upon the Witch's head.

Kate had the uncomfortable feeling that her performance was less than satisfactory, upon leaving Raven's Flat. That was necessarily a cause for concern. In her line of work, unsatisfactory employees were terminated—in every sense of the word.

It was natural that she'd be a little—out of sorts—when she got home. The high pitched squealing of the kitty clock on the wall was the proverbial last straw. But instead of wreaking havoc upon the offending object, Kate had managed to destroy several small, beloved figurines and her vase. Again, her aim was a little off.

But that wasn't it either, she thought. Kate dipped her head down, cradling it in her hands. She wiped her face and straightened, still sitting on the carpet. Fumbling in her back pocket, she took out her cigarettes and lighter. Cursing when she burned her thumb and nose, Kate inhaled deeply. She held her hand out, fingers splayed and frowned to see them shaking.

No, if she was honest—with herself at least—Kate would admit that it was not her control of her power—her aim—that was the problem. Kate didn't want to destroy the clock. She'd had the desire, the unthinking urge to obliterate _everything_ around her. It didn't matter how unoffending the object was, how much she'd loved it in another lifetime. She was just so mad! She needed quiet and rest. Kate wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She wanted the light in the street to go away and leave her in peaceful darkness. She wanted Amon to stop following her with his eyes, menacingly, like he knew what she was about. And for the others to not stare at her with fear and hesitation. She just wanted it all to stop, and why couldn't it? Why wouldn't it?

Kate inhaled again, relishing the burn in her chest, the tightness in her throat. She supposed she could congratulate herself on one thing at least. She had information. Valuable information. The kind of thing STN would kill for—strike that, had killed for. In a way, knowing the truth about Solomon made her feel sorry for her coworkers—well, not Amon. How they all followed blindly, looking up to Amon adoringly, admiringly. She knew each of them wished they could be him. Be as good a hunter as he. As strong. As fucking stoic and emotionally devoid.

Kate spat out a piece of tobacco on her tongue. Amon was nothing more than a sheep. He was as clueless as the others, deluded into self-righteousness, conned into gunning down his own kind.

But, she reflected, Amon was taking on the role of the wolf. Though Kate disliked him immensely and insulted him behind his back when she was alone with her own imaginary courage, she was afraid of him. She was afraid of the Hunter. She had the sick feeling that soon they were going to play the predator-prey game against each other. After her performance yesterday, Kate saw it as inevitable. That didn't mean their roles were already decided, however.

Kate crushed the cigarette out on her carpet, uncaring. She fingered the tiny pieces of red glass, pushing her finger up hard against the sharp edge, watching in interest as it punctured skin and blood began to swell around the wound.

Kate was also a Hunter.


End file.
